


The Case of the Detective's Flatmate

by SvengoolieCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Lestrade and Mycroft are in cahoots, Lestrade is snarky, Missing Scenes, Sherlock is trying to play it cool, Study in Pink, cute army doctor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4256190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SvengoolieCat/pseuds/SvengoolieCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade could have texted that there was a fourth suicide victim instead of detouring out of his way to Baker Street. But Sherlock had found someone to move in with him, and damn if that wasn't a weirder case to investigate than a spate of serial suicides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, just playing in the great Mofftiss' sandbox. 
> 
> Not Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. I'm really decent at proofreading, but things happen.

Long day, followed by a long night, followed by a long morning, followed by a press conference. Greg Lestrade sat next to Sally Donovan, listening with one ear as she made the requisite opening statements and daydreaming about falling into bed and being done.

 

"...Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

 

Lestrade mentally roused himself. If all goes well, he natters on for five minutes and then he's done.

 

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?"

 

"Well, they all took the same poison, they were all found in places they had no reason to be, none of them had shown any prior indication --"

 

"But you can't have serial suicides," interrupted a man with a dire need of a haircut. Lestrade narrowed his eyes, thought _idiot_ , and focused on the reporter.

 

"Well, apparently you can," he snapped. Otherwise, they wouldn't all be sitting here staring at him just after lunchtime.

 

"These three people, there's nothing that links them?" Another reporter, this one with a slightly more mollifying tone.

 

"There's nothing yet, but we're looking for them," Lestrade said.

 

Around the room, phones start chiming. He heard his own, internally grimaced, and ignored the hiss Donovan let out before thrusting her phone at him.

 

_Wrong_.

 

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them," Donovan said.

 

"It says 'wrong,'" the idiot reporter said.

 

_Bravo, you have basic reading skills, can we expect critical thinking skills to follow?_ sniped a voice in Greg's  head. It sounded a lot like Sherlock, and that realization was the only thing that kept the thought behind his teeth. Damn press conferences. Next time he'll let Donovan handle it by herself. She likes them anyway.

 

"Yeah, well, just ignore that," Donovan said, irritated. Lestrade figured she'd bring this all to an end quickly, because history had shown that once Himself made his presence known, it would all go downhill. "If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."

 

"If they're suicides, what are you investigating?"

 

"As I said, these suicides are clearly linked. It's an unusual situation. We have our best people investigating," he said.

 

All the phones chimed again, and a ripple of unease filtered through the room. Lestrade straightened his back. A string of serial suicides was not the time to start pulling mysterious shit like this. He made a mental note to discuss the concept of timing--or the concept of "bugger off and let us work"--to the world's only consulting detective.

 

"One more question," Donovan said.

 

"Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

 

Lestrade paused, bits of a text-conversation coming back to him. _One is unremarkable. Two is a coincidence--and you know how I feel about coincidences. But three? Serial killer, Lestrade, mark my words. SH_

 

"I know you like writing about this," he said carefully, "but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The poison was clearly self administered."

 

"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"

 

"Well, don't commit suicide," Lestrade snapped. Donovan muttered something under her breath, and it was enough to catch him from getting even snarkier. He took a deep breath and looked out over a sea of semi-hostile, expectant faces. "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

 

A third mass text chimed: _Wrong_.

 

Lestrade finally glanced at his phone: _You know where to find me. SH_

 

"Thank you," said Donovan, and both police officers got up before anyone else could ask questions or text insults.

 

"You've got to stop him doing that," Donovan said. "He's making us look like idiots."

 

"If you can tell me how he does it, I'll stop him," Lestrade said. He felt the tension from being in front of so many people draining away with every step away from that conference room. He'd drop his files in his office and get to go home for a few hours before having to return.

 

"Ah, Lestrade," a deep voice greeted him as soon as he opened the office door. Sherlock Holmes himself, in all his bespoke-suited glory, looked up from behind Lestrade's desk, where he was skimming through files. Sharp green-blue eyes glanced Lestrade over from head to toe and dismissed him. "I thought I might catch you before you leave."

 

"I thought I told you to stop picking the lock on my office door."

 

"I did," the consulting detective said, rising from Lestrade's chair and tying his scarf. "I had a key made. You're very easy to pickpocket for a police officer."

 

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at the younger man, more suspicions about the fates of at least a dozen of his warrant cards solidifying.

 

"Anyway, it occurred to me after my last text, that you probably wouldn't know where to find me, after all. I'm moving this afternoon from my flat on Montague to 221b Baker Street."

 

After twenty years on the force, Lestrade could smell a rat. And Sherlock Holmes might think he's inscrutable, and maybe he is most of the time, but Lestrade had pulled his posh arse out of the gutter and kept an eye on him through withdrawals more than once. Tells you a lot about a person. Sherlock fiddled with his phone, not looking at Lestrade directly.

 

"Baker Street, huh?" Lestrade dropped his files into a battered briefcase. "Expensive part of town, innit?"

 

Sherlock cleared his throat, effecting an air of nonchalance and reminding Lestrade of his teenage son trying to play it cool when talking about girls. "I found a flatmate. Army doctor from Afghanistan. Should work out fine. In any case, I will be reachable by text, should another murder occur."

 

And out he sailed, coat flapping dramatically. "Suicide!" Lestrade called after him.

 

Lestrade pulled his own phone out of his pocket.

 

The British Government picked up on the second ring. "Detective Inspector Lestrade." The voice on the other end sounded wary. With good reason, as Lestrade never called him in fair weather times. "How can I help you?"

 

"Did you know your brother has a flatmate? He was just here, and told me he was moving today."

 

The silence on the line was palpable. Lestrade stared at his phone, and put it back to his ear, reveling in the novel feeling of being a step ahead of the omniscient elder Holmes brother.

 

"Did he mention a name?" Mycroft Holmes asked.

 

"No. Just that he was in the army."

 

Both men paused, considering how a military man, used to a life of order and semi-organized chaos would get along with the sheer force of cluttered, insane nature that was Sherlock Holmes.

 

"Please keep me informed," Mycroft finally said, and hung up.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm lazy and don't want to write a transcript of the episode, I'm using the transcript done by Ariane DeVere over on Livejournal. You can find it here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html

 

 

 

 

When the call about another suspicious suicide victim came in, Lestrade could have just texted Sherlock. Under Donovan's disapproving glare, he'd even retrieved his phone and tapped out a brief message, finger hovering over 'send.' After spending a couple of weeks lurking around the edges of the investigation like a particularly keen vampire, Lestrade figured Sherlock would pounce on the opportunity to solve the case.

 

"We don't need him," she said.

 

"Yeah, we do." After news got out that there had been four victims and the police were no closer to figuring out what was going on, the news outlets would tear them to shreds. He'd already gotten the evil eye and a none-too-subtle hint from the DCI to get a move on. Lestrade deleted the message and reached for his jacket. "Go on ahead and help secure the crime scene. Who's on forensics?"

 

"Anderson."

 

Lestrade grimaced, then shrugged. "I'll meet you there," Lestrade said. "I have to do something, first."

 

"Sir?"

 

Lestrade commandeered a car, navigated to Baker Street with lights flashing. Yes, he could have texted about the fourth victim. But Sherlock had found someone to move in with him, and Lestrade needed to see this with his own eyes. In his mind's eye, he conjured the image of a guy with too many tattoos, who may or may not have a shady side-business, and who might even be dangerous. Army, and all that. Sherlock had a lot of contacts both above and underground, so Lestrade wasn't entirely sure what to expect.

 

He tried the street-level door to 221 Baker Street and traipsed up the stairs to the open door on the first floor, rehearsing to himself how it was going to go. He needed to retrieve Sherlock and eyeball his new flatmate without the consulting detective catching on. Easy. Lestrade did it with his own teenagers all the time. Lestrade figured that a combination of exhaustion with a touch of desperate hopefulness would do the trick.

 

Sherlock didn't even hide the fact that he'd been watching from the street, as he whirled to face Lestrade with an imperious "Where?"

 

"Brixton. Lauriston Gardens."

 

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

 

 _No shit Sherlock_ , Lestrade thought. _Like a flatmate. That's_ different.

 

Out loud he said "You know how they never leave notes?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"This one did. Will you come?"

 

"Who's on forensics."

 

"It's Anderson."

 

Sherlock pulled a face. "Anderson won't work with me."

 

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

 

"I _need_ an assistant," Sherlock said. He didn't whine, exactly, but it was close. A curious level of animation for the usually calm detective. Lestrade resolutely did not look off to the left, where a man was ensconced in Sherlock's overstuffed red chair. Or at the landlady. Mustn't give the game away.

 

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked again, with just the right amount of earnest pleading.

 

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind." Sherlock effected an air of nonchalance now, and Lestrade knew he'd been dismissed.

 

"Thank you," he said. As he turned to the door, he let his gaze wander over the other occupants of Baker Street. The woman was the landlady, obviously, watching the Sherlock with a fond, matronly expression. So, history there. But the man was not what he expected. Short blue eyed blond, military haircut, a mildly confused expression on his face, a cane at his side. This must be the military doctor. Well, Lestrade didn't notice any tattoos, and between the man's ordinary looks and jumper, he looked downright innocuous.

 

But he'd caught Sherlock's attention. And Lestrade had a sneaking feeling that Sherlock was trying to impress him. So there had to be something there, right?

 

No sooner had the door to 221b clicked shut behind him, did Lestrade hear an exultant whoop from the previously self-contained detective. "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas!"

 

Lestrade rolled his eyes. So much for Sherlock playing it cool. Well, best let the flatmate know what kind of crazy he was signing up for, sooner rather than later.  

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pink lady.

 

Lestrade always knew when Sherlock arrived at a crime scene. Mainly because he always _made_ a scene. Imperious, demanding, full of cutting observations and snark, the consulting detective had a habit of pushing aside whatever residual energy was left at the scene of a death and filling it with his own irritated bluster. It was like a dragon landing in their midst, flattening everyone around with the downdraft from his wings, and claiming all the space for his own to do as he willed, petty mortals and their rules be damned.

 

This time, however, he had an entourage. The unassuming little doctor, leaning on his cane, accompanied him. Sherlock, in a moment of courtesy Lestrade had almost never seen him display unless he was shamming, lifted the crime scene tape for his shadow, bantering and sniping merrily with Sally Donovan and Anderson all the while. There wasn't any bite or real hostility in his tone, for once, just a high-flying playfulness.

 

Lestrade scampered to the first floor so as not to be caught spying, and managed to look busy with a hideous blue coverall as Sherlock and his companion came upstairs.

 

"You need to wear one of these," Sherlock told his companion, handing him a coverall. Lestrade looked up, gaze moving from Sherlock to the army doctor, and eyeing the latter like he hadn't seen him just a half hour earlier.

 

"Who's this?" he asked.

 

Sherlock stripped his gloves off, somehow managing to radiate a smugness that Lestrade thought had little to do with exposing Donovan and Anderson's affair. They were easy marks. "He's with me," he said.

 

"But who is he?"

 

"I said he's with me."

 

So much for getting a name. Sherlock replaced his leather gloves with latex gloves and waited semi-patiently as the army doctor put on the coverall.

 

"Aren't you going to put one on?" the doctor asked.

 

Sherlock glowered down his nose at him. No, Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be seen dead in a hideous blue coverall. The army doctor's expression shifted to something sarcastic, and Lestrade gave him kudos.

 

"So where are we?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

 

"Upstairs."

 

The two men follow him up to the crime scene, the doctor mildly bemused, the consulting detective practically vibrating as he danced over to the corpse.

 

"Shut up," he said.

 

"I didn't say anything." Lestrade said.

 

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

 

Lestrade rolled his eyes and exchanged a look with the mysterious unnamed doctor, as if to say, "yeah, he's always this poncy." Meanwhile, the consulting detective is eying up the woman's jewelry, sniffing, and prodding at her coat and umbrella like they held the answer to life, the universe, and everything. Finally, he bounced up.

 

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked.

 

"Not much."

 

Lestrade took a deep breath. Counted to ten. Normally, the detective would have fired off a few rapid-fire deductions on his way out to chase down a clue only he saw. But he was still here, even if he was being uncooperative and distracted.

 

"She's German," drawls Anderson. "'Rache.' It's German for 'revenge.' She could be trying to tell us something--"

 

"Yes, thank you for your input," Sherlock said, slamming the door in Anderson's face.

 

"So she's German?"

 

Sherlock looks at Lestrade as though he'd drooled down the front of his coverall and rattled off a spew of deductions about the woman and where she's been, before turning to the army doctor. "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

 

_This is what the twilight zone must be like_ , Lestrade thought, as Sherlock deferred to Watson's medical expertise and invited him to take a closer look at the body. Watson had the good grace to ask Lestrade's permission, before crouching painfully down close to the body. Lestrade herded the impatient and grumbling forensics team (and a steaming Anderson) back down to the next floor to prevent unnecessary conflict.

 

He gave them a couple minutes, then came back, freezing in the doorway for a few moments as he took in the scene: Sherlock is staring without blinking at Watson while the doctor examines the body, and the two of them are whispering like schoolboys. Aware of their audience, Sherlock bounces to his feet, pointing out all the things he finds obvious.

 

Then Watson does something extraordinary and compliments the consulting detective, not once, but twice, stopping the man himself cold in his tracks.

 

"D'you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked, sotto voce.

 

"Sorry, I'll shut up," Watson said.

 

"No, it's...fine." And that soul-piercing stare is back, and it's like Sherlock is looking at something new and the doctor is starting to have a sort of "where have you been my whole life look" and--

 

And it was all getting a little weird. "Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" asked Lestrade.

 

Frantic and maybe coming a little unglued, Sherlock whirled around the room as though grateful for the redirect, yammering about a suitcase.

 

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade said.

 

The consulting detective began to look a little deranged. "Say that again."

 

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase." The effort to not grin was herculean. Sherlock, companion forgotten in the heat of the moment, charged down the stairs like a knight who'd glimpsed the Grail. Well, his sort of Unholy Grail, anyway: a serial killer.

 

"Pink!" he yelled, and disappeared into the Brixton evening.

 

Lestrade and Watson looked at each other, a bit awkwardly, before the latter started painfully shuffling down the stairs alone. Lestrade might have felt sorry for the guy, except he needed to sort out the weird vibe he'd just witnessed, and anyone who was going to survive Sherlock would have to be tough.

 

The forensics team filed back into the room with the corpse, and Lestrade found a room to make a call.

 

"Just met the flatmate. Doctor Watson," he informed the British Government. "Not sure what to think of him, to be honest. But Sherlock just brought him to my crime scene and asked his opinion of the body. Nicely."

 

Lestrade peeked out the nearest window, looking for CCTV, while the sounds of shuffling paper filtered down the line. He saw Watson stop to chat with Donovan.

 

"John Watson, formerly a surgeon attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," Mycroft said, sounding as though he already had the man's entire life history in front of him. He probably did.

 

"A doctor could be useful," Lestrade said, watching the man in question limp down the street toward the main road.

 

"Well. I'm about to meet him."

 

Lestrade grimaced and hung up. He knew what that meant. Five years previous, Lestrade  arrested a wild-eyed junkie for interfering with a crime scene. The kid, skinny as a rail and disheveled, sneaked and lied his way past the officers outside the residence and told Lestrade more about the murder victim in three minutes--even high as a kite--than his forensics team had managed to figure out in an hour. Still, he'd had the kid booked and sent down to the drunk tank to reflect on his life decisions.

 

By the time Lestrade had made it to the car park for a smoke, he'd had two guys twice his size appear on either side of him. They'd unceremoniously shoved him into a idling car with dark tinted windows, taken him to some unused warehouse in the industrial district, and handcuffed him to a metal chair in the middle of a dark, cavernous room. A tall man with thinning ginger hair, an umbrella and the general demeanor of a Bond villain had interrogated him for a half hour before letting him go. Lestrade might have thought "Bond" but had made a point of referring to Mycroft Holmes as The Penguin, which might have soured the mood a bit further.

 

They'd dropped him back at the station, thoroughly pissed off, a bit freaked out, and absolutely gasping for a cigarette. By then the kid and all records pertaining to him had disappeared.

 

Lestrade silently wished John Watson good luck and stripped off the coverall. Sherlock was haring off after a suitcase--he would find it, he would hide it, and Lestrade would retrieve it from him--and Watson was off to be interrogated. He might as well find a cup of coffee and head back to the office, because it was going to be a long night.

 

 


End file.
